It Had Been
by Morgul-squirrel
Summary: It had been a cold and queer summer, a summer of gloom and dreary music when a lord from Rhûn was found hanging from the chandelier of a dusty unused hall, and I had no idea what was going to befall me in Barad-dûr. (Not a GFIME fic)
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: So this is another spaghetti story. (It's a story started with no plans of any kind, born solely of inspiration, with no set course for the future.) So my only plan is that piece will explore society within Barad-dûr from a slave's perspective, as a counter to Featho's lordly perspective in TYW. And that's it. That's all I know.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **Prologue**

I go by many names, some uncouth, some downright vulgar, and some I dare not stop to contemplate for the horror of them…it doesn't matter! It doesn't matter! It shouldn't matter! Yet it might-oh Valar it might!

I can't do this….

I can't take it any longer….

It wasn't my fault! I swear it wasn't my fault! I'm blameless! I'm innocent!

It wasn't my fault! I don't know what I've done! I don't know what they want! I don't-I don't-I don't-I'm innocent! I think. I must be! The questions make no sense, but I don't-I don't know…!

….I just don't know anymore….

They come and they go. They come and they go, and they leave me alone to suffer in the dark- in the cold, and it hurts. It hurts, but I don't know.

I didn't do anything…did I?

What if? What if _is_ my fault? I don't remember-

I freeze at the clang of metal-an ominous crash of thunder in the darkness, and scraps of stolen paper flutter to the floor from stricken fingers, and all I can do is stare in muted panic, until the murmur of voices jolts me into a frenzy.

Hap hazardously I scrabble precious little scraps together, my fragments that mean everything, and I stuff them in my clothes, spreading them out in the hopes that if one is found the others won't be. I put them places I won't give mention to, and in mute panic I wait for Them.

It hadn't always been like this. I'd been one of Them… though even that was not always true. I'd been other things before, but I think I shall soon be a corpse.

They think I'm guilty. They know I'm guilty, and I'm beginning to believe they might be right… but I still don't remember what I did.

Light burns my eyes when it appears angry and orange in the pitch black. Through stinging tears I try to make out faces, but all I see are blurred silhouettes and the malicious light of an evil torch. In the horrible silence, there is no noise save the disembodied whimper of a terrified man, and my heart aches for him wherever he is, that solitary soul like me, so near and yet so out of reach. I bite my lip wishing to speak to him, though I know not what I could possibly say…especially when I'm the one blinded by cruel light, and being stared down at by hateful faces, but he fell silent, that poor helpless man, as soon as I bit my lip, and so the point is rendered moot.

In resigned terrified silence, I breathe too rapidly to hide my fear from their mocking red eyes, and await the inevitable pain that always accompanies their arrival.


	2. Dead Flesh

**Author's Note: More of Spaghetti story. Chapters get posted fast when there's no planning process. Is all very much stream on conscious. And as long as people are interested in whatever's going on here, I will happily keep posting. (A lot.) In theory a story of some sort will make itself apparent. (I have no idea what's going on here.)**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own anything.**

* * *

 **Dead Flesh**

The world is a sickening place of tumultuous waves, and I feel nauseous head to foot. Sometimes fleeting swashes of green and blue swirl amid the abyssal vortex in my spinning vision. Sometimes there are flashes of red, white, and pain, visceral jabbing, stinging, and then it's replaced by dark eddies on a cruel sea, and I'm spun about in a horrific night-tide I can't escape.

Voices flutter in an out of the dizzying roar. At last I vomit, choking on bile and tasting rust on my tongue. My head lulls as rough clawed hand pull on me, and too weak to move, too apathetic to truly care, I whine in futile protests, before sinking below the churning quaking tide.

I shut my eyes against a light, and hiss at the fingers on my mouth, as my bottom lip is pulled.

Above I hear a hiss, voices, and the world is spinning horribly. My stomach churns with it.

The orc jerks back with a snarl as I heave, gagging on bile, acid, and spittle. It hurts, my back, and my ribs ache. I lost count how many time's I'd thrown up. I'm sore and shaking when it ends, and I sink mercifully in the dark with a broken crackle of a sob.

Their voices fade in an out; urgent murmurs of Black Speech that mean nothing.

"Garn," one says, and I know that word. I know, but I don't, and I can't think.

The world is a sickening place of tumultuous waves that cruelly pull me under.

* * *

The grass is green, and I smile down at blonde haired babes, seeing their third summer, in the flats of Rohan. Their beautiful my son and daughter, and they giggle, as I press my lips to their cheeks, and blow raspberries against the soft skin.

I hear my wife calling from afar. She comes rushing through the long grass, skirts in hand, worried, and she falls into my arms, before leaning down to scoop our children into her arms. Her grey eyes hold fear and anxiety.

"They're here." Her voice warbles. "They've found us." She blinks profusely looking toward our little wooden house, each of our children dangling like potato sacks on her arms.

Heart thumping loudly, I scowl at her. "Prepare the horses, and go…go east."

"East-! We can't! War is that way!"

"You must!" I wrack my hands through my hair. "Saruman has eyes everywhere. If you go west you'll be found. I know what you think of Gondor. I know-believe me I know, but something's wrong." I felt it in my bones. Every hair standing on end, and the very air tingling with static felt horribly wrong.

"I promise no matter what happens, I will find you. I will find you, and we'll return, or we'll go-we'll go somewhere else. You have my word."

I grab her chin, and kiss her, pouring everything into that one singular kiss, because I've lied. I've lied so many times, and she never deserved any of this. I won't find her. I won't even search for her. Someday, she'll believe me dead, and she'll move on, meet a good man that'll treat her better, and our kids will grow fairer and stronger as time goes on. The war with Mordor will end, but they'll endure. They'll survive. And the three of them will be brilliant.

I taste the salt of tears on her lips, and it kills me inside to see crinkled chin and misty eyes when I pull away. And right then I wanted to go with her, to leave it all behind, but it wasn't that simple. I was in too deep, and if I went with her, I wouldn't be able to save her.

Turning away, I feel something inside burn as it rips, and something, some part of myself dies, and withers in the grass. I wipe my eyes, and whatever it was, I stomp on it. Viciously, ruthless, I pound it the earth under my boots, and I don't dare look back, as I open the door of the back of the house.

I snatch a knife from the cutting board on the table, the morning's fresh bread still warm, as my fingers graze it.

Stealthily I approach the door.

Shifting the blade so it's discreetly hidden I stop at the front door.

Biting back a sneer, and burying my resentment, and horror, I open the door, and meet the dark eyed stare of a dark haired man, and raise a brow.

He holds out a letter and I snatch the tiny parcel.

"Don't make him wait."

The world flickers red, white, and black. For a moment the seething waves return, and hands are on my face. I choke on the burning acrid taste at the back of my throat.

* * *

"He's not well," a nurse says to an elderly grey robed orc. With yellow fangs Bûrzghûlum snarls mutely at the young nurse: a naive blue-eyed Tark-snaga from some far flung corner of the Dark Tower.

"Perhaps while you're at it, you'd like to tell me what the colour of the sky is," he snaps, red eyes narrowed in flagrant distaste at the boy's redundant observances. He's not a terrible pupil, the young nurse, but the old orc had little patience for what he deemed stupidity.

The man breathed noisily, bleating in discomfort, as soon as Bûrzghûlum touched his sallow cheek. Under his eyelids, his eyes roamed deliriously, and the orc frowned. He'd seen the man's gums for himself. The guards had made a point, of shoving the slaves face right into his own, and his temper was simmering hotly under his calm exterior.

"You can't play with broken toys."

He glowered at the pair from over the man's chest.

The nurse, bit his lip, and backed up until he bumped against the wall. The guards were bigger than both himself and Bûrzghûlum. And they were armed. Swallowing thickly, he mutely reached out as the old orc steeped from behind the table to face the guards squarely, undaunted and unimpressed by the furious glares he was receiving.

He watched in mounting panic as he saw their clawed fingers, settle on the hilts of their swords, but the healer-orc raised his grey eyes brows, and folded his arms, unconcerned and uncaring.

"We didn't-"

"Oh didn't you?" He snapped. "Of course you didn't. It was some other pair of guards that put him in so fine a state."

"The Mouth wants him to talk, but the fool keeps quiet."

He waved a dismissive hand, and turned away, ignoring their glowers, and their weapons. "I fix what is broken, for that is my job. I shall save your hides, but I don't do it for you. So harken!" part of his mouth rose to tremble in fury over predatory yellow fangs. "You cannot play with broken toys. Now out with you. I can scarcely concentrate with this glob loitering about." He gestured to the wide-eyed nurse. "I doubt I'll be able to accomplish anything at all with you lurking about. I trust there are plenty more hapless prisoners with tied up tongues that need unravelling."

They growled at the insult, and Bûrzghûlum snarled back.

Blanched white, the nurse watched, as the largest of the guards stepped forward, speaking low and guttural in some orcish dialect he understood none of.

"I see. And that's unfortunate. Now get out," he hissed patience utterly spent.

"The Dark Lord will be breathing down your neck, if you're not careful, healer."

Bûrzghûlum scoffed, as the orcs turned departed in silent fury.

"The-the Dark Lord?" The nurse's voice trembled, and he flinched at the orc's sidelong look.

"Silence."

"But they just-they just said the Dark Lord."

The orc turned, shocking fast for so bent and old. "Enough! You're in no danger. It was a foolish thing spoken by an utter fool. The Dark Lord doesn't trifle with his healers. Harken?"

The boy swallowed, nodding.

He edged away from the wall, shorter grey apprentice's tunic sashaying against his bony knees.

"What help do you need with-with…." He gestured at the sick man, drenched in sweat and shivering under grey blankets. With a inarticulate noise of distress the man shifted, and his arm fell from the grey strata to dangle.

"What's that? What's that on his arm?"

He reached out, only to go rigid as a grey clawed hand seized his own. "Leave."

"Is that a…magpie?"

"It's a crow-now leave." The orc roughly shoved him toward a side door, and stumbling over his own feet the boy caught himself, before crashing into ground. Biting his tongue, and hating the orc's rough handling, he slipped through the door, and slammed it behind him.

The orcs snapped gruffly behind him about keeping quiet, but in silent fury he stalked off uncaringly.

With a weary hiss the orc focused on the man, trailing a clawed finger over the strange brand in the man's arm. It was no sigil of Mordor; that much he knew, and he glared down at the slave.

"What are you?"

His question went unanswered, and with a mental shrug he turned his focus toward healing and flesh craft, seeking out the wounds that grown infected, searching scarred, scabbed, and twisted olive skin for the dark spider webs of poisoned veins.

Puissance crackled at his fingers to seek out internal traumas. Detailed notes he jotted down, and he muttered under his breath, prattling off a list of all the salves, ointments, herbs, poultices, and other things he needed.

He pulled jars, bottles, wraps, needles, and thread from various drawers and cupboards. He called an older nurse to fetch him boiling water and salt.

Before he's been laid to rest the man had been stripped of soiled clothing, and under the blanket he laid feverish with naught but a cloth to cover his groin.

With diligent care Burzghulum reset broken fingers, and put a paste of turmeric and other herbs over minor scrapes contusions. But the man's back was a crosshatched checkerboard of lashes. Festering, weeping, oozing bloated wounds puckering with infection crisscrossed old scars in festering lines.

Again he called an older nurse, and the boy apprentice.

"Time for a lesson."

The young nurse nodded, as the older nurse departed.

"Come. Stand by me."

Holding a cloth to his nose the young apprentice-nurse did so.

"The rot must be dealt with. There are a few methods to accomplish this. You can take a hot iron or other cherry red rod and cauterize it. You can trim the decayed flesh with a knife. But neither of these guarantee success. There is only thing that does. Care to guess?"

The apprentice frowned, looking about at the assortment of apparatus spread out on the table.

"Boiling water and salt?"

The orc laughed, and the apprentice tensed waiting for a tirade about how thick he was. How stupid and incredibly lucky he was, but for once it didn't come.

"Indeed not, but it was good of you to observe the supplies at hand. The salt was to sterilize wounds, and the boiling water to sterilize my needle and thread…which I fear I may need more of."

The older nurse returned, with a dark bowl, and the orc smiled.

"These child, foul though they be, are among the most reliable tools you possess."

The orc took the bowl, and held it for him to see.

"Ugh!" He backed up in horror, looking away from the squirming white fat little rice grains.

"Maggots? Seriously? Maggots?" He rounded on the orc. "That's awful!"

"It is what it is, Little One. This man's wounds have festered and turned necrotic. To ensure he survives, the rot must be removed in its entirety. In this arena, maggots are your closest friend and ally. They will eat away rot, leaving behind clean living tissue."

Bûrzghûlum held the boy out for him take, and the boy's face twisted into a grimace of revulsion.

"If this hits the floor when I let go, I'll flog you myself," the orc warned. His red eyes glittered with quiet wrath and swallowing down an upwelling of bile, the young apprentice took the bowl from him.

With a disgusted squint, the boy watched the orc press maggots into the wounds. He hummed while he worked, the oddly cheery guttural sound at odds with everything else in the room.

The boy sighed, when at last the bowl was set aside, and he was dismissed once more. He made straight for the nearest sink and spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing his hands.

With gentle diligent care Bûrzghûlum cleaned the infected wounds that hadn't yet turned gangrenous. At last he finished, bowing backward to crack his back and loosen muscles strained by tension and being bent for so long. Look over the man one last time, he nodded in satisfaction at his handiwork, and left the good little maggots to do theirs.


	3. Lines of Fire

**Author's Note: Okay, so a story (I think?) is starting to emerge from all this, but it's kind of weird. I'm not sure how when our poor lord from Rhûn will get involved but he will. Poor chap. This is as you can tell very Stream of Conscience, in style, and 'I' our prisoner is in rough shape, adding a great deal to the inherent confusion.**

 **Disclaimer: It's a fanfic last I checked.**

* * *

 **Lines of Fire**

There was fire. It leapt into the sky, red and orange, and mountainous high. My house aflame and burning away along with memories.

And eyes…

Eyes like fire, and sharp like knives burned under a dark hood. I made the mistake of looking up, and the air was punched from my lungs as their gaze skewered and scoured, scraping through muscles with jagged nails.

I sagged; shaking and sputtering, and gasping for air. Never again did I dare to look up again.

"They say you will speak to none but myself."

The voice that spoke from the darkness of a mighty iron throne was dark and deep. It rattled his bones, and shook the earth. Fear clotted his insides, but it wasn't finished.

"I'm flattered." The Dark Lord's tone ranged between being utterly devoid of care, and condescendingly amused. "And you have my ear as you asked. Now what delightful story have you to amuse me with?"

His eyes were heavy on my shoulders, and in the back of my mind they felt like the fire that burned my house.

There was nothing in it, but dead dreams that had already been mourned. I turned eastward to see my family from Rohan, because I knew. Deep down I knew, I'd been double-crossed. The crow black and old, burned into my arm would fly one last time, eastward where crows feared to go.

Bûrzghûlum turned at the sound of a brittle pained hiss that scraped across chapped lips. The man stirred, face scrunching in discomfort, and the orc instantly went to the bedside, leaving his books and pen at the desk.

"Do you awaken?" He asked gently.

The man was lax, and unresponsive, deeply cocooned within the throws of sleep, and just as the old orc turned away, the man started talking.

It was unintelligible feverish murmuring. A broken slur of what seemed to be the language of Rohan…? He glanced at the black bird branded into the man's arm with suspicion, before moving to fetch a cold cloth from a basin of water.

"Déorhild!" The man croaked in sleep, and orc turned realizing that man's mumbling had been that word…that name repeated over and over.

Déorhild…

Déorhild…

Déorhild….

The man repeated it over and over with varying degrees of distress, as though he were crying. In silence the orc dabbed at the man's face humming a gravelly tune in his throat, as he waited for his fever to break.

There was green grass under my fingers, a blue sky above, golden hair in my vision, and soft lips against my ear, nibbling, kissing, ghosting over my cheek, and dancing along my scruffy jaw to find my mouth, and I smiled, one hand curling in the brown fold of a dress, and the other haplessly fisting grass and dirt.

"I love you…." My garbled mumble was swallowed by her warm lips, and I felt her pause; my wonderful Déorhild, and she smiled against my mouth.

"And I you," she sighed contentedly. Her grey eyes, like the even were seductive, and teasing evil fingers trailed tantalizing lines across my chest.

Blue sky turned to fire, and it was hot. It was hot on my face, and those terrible eyes burned. They burned, and burned, burrowing, deeper, deeper, and it was too much. The burned holes through my chest out the other side, and my back was aflame, hideously flaming.

My eyes fluttered open to orange light and a grey red-eyed face, full of jagged teeth.

No!

No! I moaned, and bleated choked terror, trying to crawl away, to just get away.

"Nnnn!"

He reached out, and I saw claws, vicious horrid claws, and knew only panic at the promise of pain. There was noise. There were voices. And all the more desperately I tried to scramble back, and away, clawing at the hands that dared to reach for me. But there were too many, and they were too strong.

"Get away! Get away! No!"

I moaned, I pleaded, I begged, but they cared naught, and I reached out, not for a hand but a throat, and hard I squeezed, feeling bones grate and grind in my grip. And truly the hands on me become constricting and restricting. Voices were shouting in a meaningless cacophony as wrung that scrawny little neck, until it was wrenched from my wrathful hand.

Fingers pinched my nose, and I say the flash of a dark glass bottle.

Lines of lightning tore down my back, as I twisted and writhed in muted fury, desperate to get away-far away.

Fingers were groping at my lips, trying to pry them apart, and with a snarl I bit gnashing teeth against nails and knuckles. Only to jerk away when the returned with fervent violence of their own.

Flesh tore, and fire licked my back in dizzying flickers of red and orange fire. And I felt warm water sleuth taut muscles, and I whined behind clenched teeth.

* * *

The man was a maddened writing mass, feral in his attempts to flee, and before Bûrzghûlum could say a word to stop her, one of the senior nurses punched him the gut, and he splutter choking and gasping and one of her fellows, grabbed him the face, digging his fingers into his cheeks so that his mouth couldn't close, and forced the sedative down his throat with a snarl. His nail was slip and bloodied where the man had bitten him.

Far more roughly than was necessary, the man was turned over. His sutured back was a bloodied mess under the bandages, and the old orc rubbed his brow.

"Bastard's all yours," the bitten senior nurse spat out. "Hope his fever takes him." Clutching his injured hand he kicked the bed, and stalked off.

Days before the maggots had devoured all the rotted flesh, and the wounds were well cleaned, but once again they bled anew, and leaving his nurses to themselves he sought boiling water himself, and once more he sterilized his threads and needles.

* * *

"Ah, ah, ah…you join us at last," a voice smiles, and I squint upward, seeking the smiling voice. I jerk at the sight of an orc's beady eyes and yellow teeth, only to feel heavy straps weighing down my arms.

In horror I glance at one of them, but even as my panic mounts, the orc clucks it tongue, and makes shushing noise.

"It is for both our safety and our own." The orc's voice is strange…strange…and it scratches at my ear as he continues talking, and I watch his movements with my heart thumping in my throat, waiting for a trick, a wicked grin, and hideous leer, or a mocking laugh to prove his assurances of my safety wrong. But no such thing occurs. He merely grinds at some herbs in a mortar with wrinkly grey hands and all I can think is…strange.

"What is your name young one?" Young one? I'm a grown man, and I frown at him mildly offended and perplexed. He's old this orc, balding, grey haired, and stooped, but oh so strange…and I can't understand, but a wrongness nibbles away, itching as I listen and observe.

"Even slaves have names," he says, and again his voice is odd. It's patient…and he seems willing to wait an eon for me to speak. And maybe that's it: the utter lack of detectable hostility.

"You didn't…" My throat cinches painfully over rasped worn out words, and even as I dryly swallow, he's setting aside his mortar and pestle to pour water into a cup.

"You'll behave, yes?"

I nod, and flinch when his clawed fingers graze my arm. From the corner of his eyes he watches me, staring at him, and with a few deft movements of his fingers, the thick leather bands fall loose from one arm.

He moves to the other side of the cot, and I bolt into a sitting position as soon as my other's arm's free. A chain clanks about my ankle, and it disappears, somewhere under the cot. Even with the mobility of my arms regained, I know that I am not leaving.

I drink from the cup pressed into my hands, and he returns to his work station.

"Your name, young one."

I go by many names. Some are uncouth, some downright vulgar, and some I dare not contemplate, but none were unfounded, and each among them I had earned.

"Of what consequence is a name?"

The orc scowls. "Names are incredibly important. They define us, mark us, and reveal to the world who we are, and serve to reminds us of we are lest we forget. A name, dear child is of extraordinary consequence indeed, and surely you have not been stricken of yours?"

My mouth opens. It closes, and my teeth clench as fire burns in my chest.

"Traitor." The words grinds it scornful way past my gritted teeth, and he frowns.

"I doubt overly much that is truly your names."

"It's what they call me." Among all my names, it's not the most horrid. It's not the most terrible. It's not-it's not- it's not…something inside is shrivelling and burning, and I can't bear his gaze, and I look away hands fisting as my throat constricts in fiery pain.

"Hush," the orc murmurs, and I jerk to find him so close. "If this is the name you choose to be called, it is not my place to judge. But I am a fixer, and distress is not conductive to healing."

His finger presses against the furrowed lines in my brow, and strangely I find myself compelled to relax.

"I am Bûrzghûlum, the thaumaturge here. My specialty lies in flesh-craft, and it was handiwork that has spared you." He smiles toothily.

"I'd rather you hadn't."

His hand falls away from my forehead, and his eyes flicker with hidden thoughts that calm face does not reveal.

"All of us in Mordor, have our tasks to which we are appointed. I fix that which the lords break, and repair what my Uruk brethren tear in their overzealous sport. You likewise have a task to which you were appointed…." _That's why you are here,_ was the unspoken implication of his words. But no more he said, and soon I found myself staring at breakfast. A hearty one, the likes of which I hadn't seen in so long.

It's an utter delight, a joy unsought, to bite into a bruised apple, and I care not for the mushy brown spot. A worm would have found itself crush by uncaring teeth had there been one. If was fresh! It was refreshing! And the taste of something other gruel left me shamefully floundering in a maelstrom of gratitude and sickening adoration for this quiet gruff orc that sat stooped over books, and thoughtfully bit the end of his pen every once in a while.

If I had hoped for kindness in Mordor, I would never have sought to look for it in an orc. And despite all sense to the contrary, I relished his presence. He was unequivocally, and undeniably safe, when nothing else was.

"Rest Traitor," he encouraged with a smile some time later. The dungeons seemed a horrible nightmare, and as my body's strength grew, so too did my spirit. But my smile faltered.

"I'm not feeling overly tired."

"That is good. That is very good." The orc's eyes were gentle. "But you're still recovering, and your task is to heal." And something in my stomach twisted.

"Bûrzghûlum, I don't want-I don't want to go back to that!" My voice came out a frightened trill. He raised placating hands.

"Please don't let them take me back-please-"

I couldn't do it-I couldn't- It was too horrible! Too dark! Too cold! Too cruel!

I grabbed his hands when he was in reaching clinging in sudden quailing desperation, feeling my breath hitch and my shoulders quake as he pry himself from my grasp.

"We all have our tasks, to which we are appointed," he said. "And none among us can change that."

"Please!"

"You are not fit to return, and a while longer you shall be in my care, but soon you will be fixed."

Fear digs it icy claws deeper and I shake my head, railing futility against the hopelessness of the situation.

"Please!"

"Traitor," He tilted my chin so that we were eye to eye. "I know naught what they wish of you. 'Why' things are as they are, is beyond my care, and scope of my domain, but they can be merciful. They can be kind, but you must let them be so. You need only to obey."

"You need only to obey," he repeated. His voice was gentle, but he wasn't smiling. Not anymore.


	4. Déorhild

**Author's Note: Another one…**

 **Disclaimer: This surely is a dream.**

* * *

 **Déorhild**

"Who is Déorhild?" Bûrzghûlum asks, as we pace about the room. I am grateful for the little walks, and for the most part manage unaided though the orc or one of the nurses is never beyond arm's reach.

I freeze, tense like a snake.

"How-how-who-?"

He raises a hand. "You spoke in the throes of a fever. You said naught but that name, and I wondered who they must be…."

Suspiciously I search his face for deception, and my glower remains after I find none.

"She was my wife."

He nods and asks no more of it and for that I'm grateful. We complete the circuit and I return to bed, sinking into the grey sheets.

"Rest, Traitor." He says my name without judgement or contempt, and sparks a blaze, because I hate it. I hate its curse. I hate the taint. The stain, the horror, of what I am-I hate. So virulently do I hate it! But it's oh so true, so terribly true-fundamentally and irrevocably true. I roll over and stamp it down deep, burying it under other thoughts, but there are no other thoughts, nor other memories.

They all led me here. What difference did it make in the end?

"I swear allegiance to Saruman."

I kneel at the wizard's feet. I kneel and knees do not like the hard cold floor. His cloak is brilliant white, as is his hair, and he watches me with fell glittering eyes. Blood drips from my hand, and from the knife blade. In blood I have sworn, and he smiles. He smiles, and his teeth grow yellow and crooked.

I wished to fly among his black birds, and I grit my teeth, grunting, gagging, and retching on the stench of melting skin and sizzling iron. Its cloying reek fills my nose, and the orc snarls in cruel delight, before I'm released and stagger to my shaking knees.

He's there before me, standing above all gossamer white-fiery eyes. I kiss a hand pale-charred black.

"What do you want, Little Bird? What price does one pay for a song so sweet?"

"I want nothing. I ask no boon."

Everything's dark, and in the blackness a monster lurks. A leviathan with a tectonic voice coils, and then is laughs. It laughs so loud and so deep. The world shakes. The earth tilts, and how heavy those eyes are, filling my head, though I know my eyes are closed and my head is bowed.

"I wish for justice. It is not all I wish, but…."

"But you fear I will refuse."

"With due respect Lord, I fear more that you'll say yes."

His eyes are fire, and so too is the house, burning, smouldering, choking on the ash of its own remains.

A woman screams- a man falls from a balustrade-the man screams-the woman screams- a shadow darts through a door.

Nowhere to be found.

The woman screams: an agonized, shrill, horrific thing.

"Déorhild."

I jerk awake at the sound of my own sobbing.


	5. The Reason

**Author's Note: So this is very much a character driven story. I have no plot, no plan, and so far it's been interesting. I don't know how much of this is making sense to anyone. So if the Stream-of-Conscience style is throwing people off, please feel free to ask questions. I will be more than happy to answer them. Obviously I can't really say what will happen since I don't know, but in terms of the story thus far… like I said feel free to ask questions.**

 **I really am enjoying this though, just as some sort off-the-wall mental workout. It's…cleansing (?), and I'm hoping it'll spark inspiration for other fics that are in desperate need of TLC.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **The Reason  
**

I loved her. I loved…selfishly, accursedly I loved her. I loved her. I loved…. My hair is dark, as are my eyes, and in the water's surface she stands like sunlight. The very sun itself was woven in her flaxen hair, and I touch the white flower sitting behind her ear.

She is radiant, and I am night.

I am a crow on black wings flitting from shade to shade, shadow to shadow, darkness to darkness, abyss to abyss. I do not ask why I do the things that I do. I am pointed to my tasks and I see them through.

Edoras is strange to me. It's big, loud, boisterous, surrounded farms, filled people, and I feel transparent.

They are fair-haired, like my wife. I am night, ebony haired and green-eyed. I do not belong. I do not like this place, so strange.

The bar is clean, and smells of beer. I count every exit, make note of all the men and women, and in the corner of my eye I spot the man like me. He's flaxen haired, and grey eyed Rhohirrim. He does not look at me, nor I him, but I am every bit aware of his presence as he is of mine. He sits as I would, where I would.

I order a drink at the counter, and make my way to a table, passed him. He plucks a note from his sleeve, and I discreetly snatch it up, taking a nonchalant sip of my drink.

I sit in my corner nearer a back exit.

He leaves, and carefully I unfold the letter.

It disappears within the secure of confines of my cloak, and when my drink is finished, I too disappear.

The King's advisor greets me. He is a dark haired man, pale like ice, and his hands on my arm are cold, as we walk in amiable-seeming-company. He introduces me as a distant cousin to those who ask, and pleasantly enough we entertain curious ears with our forged childhood stories.

And it is only in secrecy. In the abyss from which I flown, into which I will once more fly: Saruman's little pet crow that the façade is cast off, and our truths revealed. He asks news from Isengard, and quietly I twitter, singing songs as he wishes to hear to them.

He asks questions, all of which I answer.

Does birdy want a cracker?

Birdy wants to fly home and roost, thanks.

Cordially our conversation ends, and gold coins are set heavily in my hand.

"I need you little crow, to be more than a bird of secrecy in flight," Gríma says. "I need you to be my hawk. My hunter. I need you to be my asset."

"All in the name of Saruman the White. If it is for his benefit. I am yours."

His lips quirk.

Well-spoken little bird.

More than a message am I to bring to Isengard. I am to bring a trophy. The crow's talons are iron wrought, and when they sink into flesh they shall be deadly. The King's son is to meet with a mishap.

Linked arm and arm we walk. Fires around us burn warm and cheerful.

A lady fair passes us by, and in Gríma's eyes lust is kindled. I glance behind. She's fair, yet cold as ice, and no more attention do I give to the young lady. My wife is the loveliest lady in all the land. She is the sunlit starling dancing in the blue of dawn.

As kindred we part. For kindred we are…little birds that fly in dark watches of the night.

To an orc chieftain I soar, and banners of black bearing a white hand flutter, as do my cloak wings.

* * *

The orc has scars, old faded lines that warp old withered skin. The sound of pestle grinding leaves to mush is distracting, and I cast memories aside to watch the healer as he works.

"You've been in a few fights."

He turns, and his eyes glint with something near to mirth.

"Indeed I have." Bûrzghûlum's eyes drop to his arm, visible beyond the confines of a long sleeve. "When I was young, I was mighty warrior indeed. I made the fools who dared test their mettle pay horribly indeed."

"How did the mighty warrior become a healer?"

"He got old," he shrugs, and scrapes a poultice into a jar for storage.

For a moment I watch him. "And that's it?"

He's smiling when he looks up. "There's more to add I'm afraid. I grew old in a profession that few typically grow old in. But my lore did not start when I retired from wielding a brand. A good warrior should know how to tend his cuts, as one never knows when they'll be alone without aid. So my mother sat me down and showed me how to stitch sinew as if it were silk, how to identify which plants to use and why. She was good with a needle, and frightening with a blade. And 'accidents' in Barad-dûr are common. Especially around staircases and balconies. Such it was, and one day a slave boy took a tumble, snapping his neck in the midst of his tumble. He was a bruised, broken, delicate little thing, and my mother bought his corpse from an uncaring master, and that night she showed me his insides. In learning to heal I learned how to kill, but it was my prowess as a healer that proved the greater benefit. Any idiot can shoot a bow or swing a sword, but the younger lads didn't know how to patch up what they cut…." He snorted with a scornful laugh. "I became too important to kill, and so I grew old; too weak in the muscle to fight on, yet too strong in spirit to relish how fat I've gotten."

I laugh and the old orc smiles, as he extends a hand. With a twinge of sore muscle, and a grimace, I slip from the bed and we walk the room.

It's an amiable walk. I try to picture Bûrzghûlum young and strong, wielding a sword…and I find his story leaves me with more questions.

"You're well-spoken," I blurt, and he laughs.

He glances at me, red eyes glittering, and I think of rubies with a thousand facets refracting the light. He sighs. "Uruk-hai are not the scholarly sort. And being cooped up with naught but books is dull indeed, but it's necessary, and I would wager that it was from the musty tomes of the library I gained some eloquence."

Our walk is short and he sits me down after to check my back, and under his breath he mutters periodically, in some broken snippets of Black Speech and some orc language.

"The maggots did well."

My nose wrinkles, and I grimace. "You've been saying that for over a week."

"It's no less true now than it was then. They saved your life. You should be grateful to them."

Maggots are filthy, so I am not.

The infirmary is a refuge, a sanctuary away from Them, from Down There, and I love its mercy, and fear the bitter hand that will tear me away. Tighter and tighter I cleave to the orc, unwilling to return so graciously to the dark. My wings are clipped, and I cannot fly. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What stupid bird so brazenly flies into a snare?

"What of yourself?" Bûrzghûlum asks. "How comes the Cerbain of Dunland to Mordor?"

My fingers trail over raised dark outline of a bird on my arm.

"On a long winding road, fraught with peril. I almost died crossing the Fords of Isen, and again in East Emnet. I was pursued north to the Anduin, and I braved passage across with my horse, and braved crossing the Brown Lands south to the Morannon. I lost my horse four days out, and spent three days staked in front of the Black Gate until I was granted entry."

There's a brief pause in the orc's movements, then he's inspecting a wound again, and I shiver at the cool sensation of a fresh salve touching me bare skin.

"I cared about my people. I cared about them. Saruman said he cared about us, and wanted better for us. He became our closest friend and ally. He had a plan to help us, and I wanted to be a part of that plan. I cared not why or how. I only wanted to help." A morose smile cracks my lips. I wanted to do what was right."


	6. Skyfall

**Author's Note: Usual reminder. This piece has no plans, and I'm writing whimsically.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **Skyfall**

It's cold. It's dark. The blankets are just enough. I would ask for more, but the orc and the boy-nurse that with a choker of purple blossoms about his throat that threw the first spare one at him have both gone away, and I'm alone. Alone, in the cold dark, but it's not so bad. It's not dark.

Not as dark as the Tower could be. And I should be grateful, it's not as dark as that.

But that darkness is near, looming closer every day, waiting for me to heal. Waiting to finish what it started, and I'm not ready to face it again.

I shudder, and burrow into the soft grey strata of fabric. It's soft, and if I shut my eyes, and ignore the herbal smells of a medical environment I can imagine the time before.

Déorhild rushes into my arms, and we fall together. The floor is not so hard a thing, when I'm elated to be home, and to find my wide glowing and safe.

"I have the most wondrous news!" She smiles, but even as she grins, her shoulders quiver, and tension gives her away. My brow furrows.

Her hand sneaking to her stomach betrays her words. And in the span of a heartbeat I'm ripped apart by joy and fear. "You're-"

"I'm pregnant."

It's wonderful, but a hideous darkness rises, and looms, and I can't feel all the wonder that I should. Guiltily I smile, mind racing. It's so dangerous. It's so terrible. It's hard enough keeping her safe and unmolested-throw a kid into the mix-it becomes near impossible.

"You're not happy…."

"Of course I'm happy!" But fear takes over, and it does not release so easily.

I do kiss her, and I do smile, and I do run my hands down her sides only to grab fistfuls of her dress and slide her skirts upward. I do realise that I'm not fit to carry her to the bed. I do slip a leg between hers, and flip our positions. I do everything to make her happy. I do know that she smells of herbs and earth. I do know that I am utterly terrified.

I am terrified still.

* * *

I sleep. I dream. I eat. I sleep.

The grey is morose, but it's comfortable, and I can smell mint, and lavender.

The sky is red, and twisting, with dark clouds, and eyes peer down, always watchful and malignant. They are eyes, yet without mouths they speak, and I understand. I understand and I am afraid.

"I fear that you will say yes."

I see no face, yet I know he is smiling, gracious and indulgent, and the darkness is less, the eyes softer, and the sea of blood on the floor is more like flowers in a field, or ripples in water, and Déorhild smiles, so beautifully. She smiles, but our reflections in the water are broken things like shards of glass.

His smile is golden thing. A golden gleaming thing, of pearl and sunshine, and it's radiant, dancing on my skin like the golden rays of summer. I love.

I love and I smile, and I listen as he speaks once more, voice like honey. I could a bird upon his hand. I could, perhaps, after feeling the sharp stab of betrayal, dare to believe that this lord, of gold and sunshine that lurks so lonely in dark might be worth the risk. I want, despite myself, to trust him. I want to believe.

She smiles. He smiles. My smile. We are all, all of us smiling.

And the red skies pour split apart with thunder-

The door has opened, and They have come. They stand hulking-monsters with chains, cruel smiles, and horrific eyes. They come, and harshly one speaks to the healer. The old orc is my hope now, and he is not pleased with the gaoler's words. He snarls back, and its harsh ragged gravel that scours my ears.

"Garn," he says. I know that word. It translates to 'go on,' but its context is far direr. It's a threat, a curse, a promise, and a dare, and I look between them. He's so old and squat next to them, but he looks bored, like he did before, and my heart beats more regularly. He'll defend me. He's going to protect me. I want to kiss him!

The second of the gaolers, a smaller warty thing with gangly arms, and too long teeth growls, and cuts in, and his voice is as scraggly as he is.

Bûrzghûlum pauses, eyes narrowing, and his upper lip is wrinkled with agitation. Then he unfolds his arms, and removes from his person a key.

"NO! No! Please! NO! You can't-you can't-"

He pauses, and turns. His face is stoic. He is not remorseful. He is not hateful. He is not happy. He is not mad. He is cold. Like a dead fish he's cold and dead and devoid of care, and I shake my head.

"Traitor, I am a healer. I fix what others break. That is the task I have been appointed to. Heed my advice. Harken to me Young One, and let go your rebellion. Obey. Obey and give none further cause to break you-"

"Please!"

He opens his mouth, but before either of us can say more, the key is yanked from his hand, and the larger of the two orcs saunters forward.

"Get away!"

"Traitor!" the healer's voice cuts across panic and ire. His tone makes the orc standing before me pause a moment, before he roughly snatches my ankle and unlocks the chain binding me to the cot. "We all have our tasks, to which we are appointed, and none among us may change that."

"Please! Bûrzghûlum, please!" I hiss.

My chest hurts. I feel sick. The world is cold. "Please- I thought- I thought-!" I lean back and dig my heels in as they yank me from the bed.

His face asks the question that his voice does not.

You thought what?

My throat closes around glass and gravel. I shut my eyes against the horror of it. His face so unperturbed, so cold, so-

A hand touches my cheek, and my heart skips a frantic, sickening, hopeful beat. He's there, eyes red and teeth yellow, and for a moment I name him saviour.

"Traitor." His voice is quiet. "I do not wish to see you a second time."

His hand is gentle and all the crueller for it.

I'm yanked away, with his parting words echoing-hollow.


	7. The Cost of Disobediance

**Author's Note: Trigger Warning! Please heed following tags!**

 **Triggers:** **Near-rape scene, gore, death**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

* * *

 **The Cost of Disobedience**

Down, down, down, into dark I fall. I do not fly. My wings are broken, and I hit stone with a solid thud. Skin tears on the rough surface, and I struggle, as I'm lifted by cruel hands, again I collide with stone, but the hands don't leave.

Hot breath moistens my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, and a tongue winds its way along an artery, and sordidly it teases tendons, and my fluttering pulse- across a clavicle. I squirm, and mocking laughter dampens my skin.

"Ooh, he likes it!"

There's laughter and curdles like milk in my stomach. Lips kiss my shoulder, and teeth playfully nip, and I can feel the rumble of laughter against my chest. I push uselessly, and my knee collides sharply with flesh and bone.

Laughter becomes a snarl, and I howl as teeth bite into flesh. I thrash, as skin rips, and fire scalds my shoulder, and the orc disappears, and I'm left in shocked trembling tears. Blood flows hot, and I raise a fumbling hand to shield it.

My hands are slaked in blood. They have been for years.

It's dark in the creases of skin, etched like rivers across the palms of my hand. It's mine. Sometimes it's someone else's, and tenderly Déorhild cleans them. She dabs and wipes, and checks for infection and worries over my fingers like a fastidious hen. She's beautiful. She is mine, and she is round.

My hands weep red as I touch her face. She's cold. She's pale. She stares unseeing upward into the gathering blue of dawn. My sunlight starling will never again smile into the sun. She's cold, and I hear the rain. I remember the rain. I've seen many storms, I think, and it rains. It rains because tears fall from her grey eyes. It rains, and I am drowning.

I cough and sputter, water flowing into my lungs, choking me, and before I've recovered, there's water. Cold acrid bitter water.

The orcs bear the white hand. The orcs bear the red eye. It happened then. It happens now.

I have suffered just as bad in the mines below Orthanc, where orcs grow large and terrible, and water rushes my lungs.

Truly I choke. Drowning-drowning blind in the dark.

My head cracks against stone, and fires of red and white erupt across the wet black sky.

"You must have your legs broken to grow your wings!"

"You will tell us…why did you kill him?"

Kill who? When? I've killed more than one.

Déorhild patiently binds my hands.

"Does it trouble you?" I mean the war. The two sides. I am of Dunland and she is of Rohan-we are enemies. I love her. I have to wonderful children with her.

"You think a little blood bothers me?" She laughs. "I'm from Rohan. Behind the walls of Edoras, even women wield a brand." She presses her lips to my palms, then to my fingertips, and then she looks up sultry and seductive, and she crawls across my lap and her lips crash against mine.

Her fingers dig deep in my shoulders, and blood runs from broken veins, and torn stitches. A healer's handiwork is ruined, and my shoulder is soaked in red, that runs through my fingers, over my hands. It dries and flakes, and falls. I'm covered in red paint.

It streaks my ribs, and rivers are painted down my thigh.

My hands are red. They'd always been red.

But hands are supposed to white. White on black. Only eyes are red, and they leer from the dark. They know something I don't. But I know lust when I see it. And I know love of the kill.

I never loved to kill. But I can't say that I hated it. Tasks were put before me, and I did them without questioning how or why. It was my job simply to do or to die. Bûrzghûlum's eyes appear, and his voice flits through the darkness calm and wise.

"Obey, and you'll give them no more reason to break you."

A needle flashes through the corner of my eye, and a wrinkly deft hand moves.

"I said I did not wish to see you a second time."

His voice is low, and it fades away.

"The mouth is weary of his games," a voice snarls and it is evil. It raises my hackles and it scrapes like ice across my scalp.

"He's getting tired of waiting."

"He must. And so must you."

Bûrzghûlum is resolute. The evil voice snarls, and I tremble as I creep unwillingly into the waking world.

Hot breath tickles my ear, and fetid breath makes me flinch.

"Greetings, slave, my sweet little robin. I hope, my little bird, you've enjoyed your sleep, for I shall make you sing."

His words not a threat. They're a promise, Bûrzghûlum shoves the evil one aside with a snarl, and I twist as metal rings.

"You can't play with broken toys." His voice crackles with fury, and he bristles with lightning.

"You want him to heal faster. You must let him have his leave of you. Flesh cannot be fixed whilst under threat." He's speaking to sword point, held by a small bow legged orc, that exudes evil. And I fear for Bûrzghûlum. I fear despite the memory of him saying healers were unassailable. And I catch the wink of silver in his hand.

He is not unarmed, and he's thinking that this orc might try to kill him too. The sword buries itself in the pillow mere inches from my head, and a thin line of silver is at the nameless orc's throat.

"Go on," Bûrzghûlum says dryly. His head tilts in daring mockery, encouraging the other orc to do something fatal, but the other smiles, and it's an evil smile, directed at me.

He backs away, putting distance between his throat and the scalpel.

"Wisdom from an elder should never be ignored." His eyes drift down to me, and there is naught but mirth and malice. "I will take my leave. For now."

He turns and stalks off, and slowly Bûrzghûlum's arm lowers, and once more he's portly fat little orc aged like brittle paper.

"Traitor… you must obey. You must obey them. This," he gestures at my shoulder, bleeding under bandages and herbs. "This mustn't continue. For your own sake you must obey. My knowledge of flesh craft goes beyond maggots and mere herb lore." His red eyes rove my face. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes." I nod.

His lip curls. "No, Traitor. I'm not sure that you do."

He stretches out a hand and carefully presses my head into the pillow.

"I don't believe you do. And Traitor, I can promise that you don't want to."

"I do," I insist dumbly, not sure if I do or not. I think I understand, but the look he give me is one of exasperation, and his sigh would have withered tree leaves if there were any about.

"That is Grishnákh." There's an edge to Bûrzghûlum's voice. "Even by the standards of my folk he is evil. The he has taken an interest in you is no good…." He mutters agitatedly, and I catch garn and lob, as well as few other words. 'snaga.' "He is not merciful. He is not kind He will not care that you obey. He will not care. He will break you after you submit, for the joy of doing so. You must cease this-this rebellion. End it Traitor. End it whilst you can. You will not like what he will do. And if you don't yield to him, and he needs me to save you, I think you will find no more pleasure in what I shall do. Obey them. Obey them-"

"I can't! They think I killed someone! I've done nothing wrong! I've done nothing! I saw the man-! I saw the man! He was pushed-pushed, but another, and I chased after him-I chased after and they caught me instead! I didn't do it! I can't answer them!"

I throw the blankets aside, and make to rise, but Bûrzghûlum is there, and he is strong and I don't wish to fight. I shudder under my lonely grey blanket.

"It would be different if I was guilty…."

It would have been easier. It would have been my way out. I could have taken wing and flown beyond the fire engulfing the house, rising beyond the heights crows like me could never hope to soar, and joined once more my starling and my darling chicks, but I wouldn't die like this. I wouldn't die for this. I wouldn't. I couldn't.

Little birdy wanted to fly home and roost, but on his own terms, for his own reasons, kneeling before the Dark Throne. Not like this. Bûrzghûlum couldn't ask that.

The old healer sighs, once more, and leaves on branches turn to dust as he turns to his supplies with rigid line of tension in his back. He's slow, and methodical in his ministrations, from then on, and he does not look at me. He does not speak.

It scares me. His silence scares me, and he pauses. He doesn't move, standing idle, staring at the blankets, near my hands, and I don't why he's still until he looks over.

The orc's eyes are queer, as he lays a hand on my chest.

"You must relax. You must breathe easy."

Something's wrong. It's wrong. I know that it is. I can feel it in the air. It curls inside me, serpentine. Something's wrong, and desperate keen of anxiety rises fervent from my chest.

His eyes are still so strange, and I squirm.

"Please-please-"

His eyes drift to the side, to something I can't see, and he pulls away. I raise my head to look, but even as I rise he lifts the scalpel from where it lays.

He glances at me sideways, red eyes calculating. "My job is to fix what others break. I am a healer, and will not betray my integrity as such. Reputation means everything, and I value mine too highly to relinquish it for you…." He leans away to set it in a tray. His eyes are still strange when he looks back at me. "Though it's possible we may both wish that I had."

A frown furrows his brow, and he sighs. "Even now, you still don't understand."

"Bask in the mercy of you ignorance whilst you can, for you may soon be privy to secrets you wished had forever remained kept. I do not wish for it, but before all is said and done, Traitor, I am going to make you hate me."

Softening his voice he leans nearer. "But that is still a fate far off, and right now Traitor, you must rest."

* * *

My dreams are twisted ugly things, and I'm not sure they're dreams.

"Why did you kill him?"

"What right did filth like you have for killing a lord from Rhûn?"

"Crebain!"

They curse it, and spit. It's not the orcs but men. Men with dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes, visit, guided to my cell by orcs. There is naught but hate in their faces, for in their eyes I'm the man who killed their master. And men from Rhûn are loyal to their own, and to their dark god, sitting high and mighty at the height of his tower.

They will take all they can from one who they deem guilty.

But it is not so bad. It is not terrible. It is not- a woman enters, with white as snow, eyes grey as the sea, hair like spun gold, and a heavy collar rubbing blisters into her throat. Her eyes are puffy, and she's horribly naked.

I look away, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Rumour has it little birds like you like them fair."

"I heard, this little bird, had himself a little whore wife."

"She screamed for me in bed." A man smiles as others snigger. "And when I thought we was done, she begged for more."

"I daresay you were lucky, all she did was moan 'Saruman,' when I had her in mine."

Laughter intensifies, and the girl for that is surely what she is, clings to the chain drooping form her collar, cringing in terror, as laughter echoes raucous around us. Her eyes are puffy, and her face is turned toward the wall as she blinks.

She squeals as one of the men yanks her from the wall, and crushes her to his chest. She sobs, hand over her mouth, as his fingers trail down her neck, and he whispers in her ear. Her breathing hitches and her sobs momentarily intensify, and she bows her head as he fondles a breast. He presses his lips to her cheek, and then he shoves her forward.

The smack of flesh against stone is sickening, and in pain, horror, and fear she is truly crying. Wind knocked from her lungs she sucks in quaffs of air. She screams as a foot wizzes scant inches from her head and catches in her hair.

Keening in pain, and clutching her scalp she falls as another foot swings for her, and before more can be done I grab her arm, and yank her away.

Choking, and hiccoughing she quakes like a leaf, and watching them watching us, I brush a thumb across her cheek. She swats my hand aside, cinching her arms around her chest.

Just a child. Just a child.

I take her face in my hands, and she spits.

"Hush. Hush," I whisper. I bush aside tears, and murmur. "It's not so terrible a thing."

"Please-"

She shivers trying to hide herself as my hands glide down her throat.

"It's not so terrible a thing." I press my lips to her brow as my grip on her neck changes.

It's a kiss cut short with the percussion of snapping bone.

She falls limp, and twitching at my feet.

There is only silence. They hadn't seen my hands under the cover of her hair.

I look at the one that tried kicking her. The one who thought it cute to mention the wizard's name in front of me.

"Try to force a hapless little girl on me again, and I'll cut a gash cut so deep between your legs, you'll be able to birth sons for your wife."

Silver flashes ruddy in the torchlight.

* * *

The bird was broken when Bûrzghûlum arrived, with an Uruk gaoler and a nurse in toe. Broken, and blooded, with wounds weeping from between bruised fingers.

"One of the Easterling boys got carried away," was the explanation he'd received, not that it mattered to him who had so brazen ruined his work or why.

He tssked, and muttered black little curses, carefully checking for a pulse.

A knife's blade quilted pale flesh in macabre design, and an old bite was crusted over, spongy, and yellow. One thing at a time, and he and the Uruk carefully moved him.

"Clean that up." He gestured at straw burnished red.

The burse laid out a tray, filling it with gauze, and bottles as needed.

Puissance crackled at Bûrzghûlum's fingers, and he sighed.

"When next you wake, I must warn you, what bitter medicine I may yet be forced give you."

If only the man might have listened and obeyed.

Outside there were voices, and from the heights of the tower, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr himself came down.

"It'll be on your head, snaga, if he dies."

Bûrzghûlum grumbled. "Your bird is not so broken that he is beyond repair."

A corpse was hauled passed the door, dribbling, between booted feet, and security was prioritized. No more overly rough play nor foolish vengeance from Rhûn could be tolerated.

Grishnákh was put in charge of interrogation, and Bûrzghûlum sighed when he heard the news.

"Traitor, you should have obeyed."


End file.
